spider eyes

for emily

i still remember the way 
the summer night sounded
when my dad taught me 
to look for spider eyes, 
flashlight held to my forehead 
the forest edge a haze of magnolia leaves 
and privet advancing on a hard-fought lawn

the night itself wasn't anything special,
nothing different than the night before 
or the night after, but 
i imagine this is exactly like the night 
his dad taught him,
sparse words leaving room for wonder 
and discovery 

that time of year,
"silence" is a living, breathing thing:

bat wings 
shudder past us
after mosquitoes,
cicadas trill 
from pine-bark stages, 
coyotes call 
over the hills

even my own trembling breath,
in and out, in and out, 
tests itself against the weight of 
so many somethings 
barely out of sight 

i was (predictably) afraid of the dark,
but he stayed with me until I saw those 
bright jewels shine against thick black nothing and 
gasp 

my breath settles in, and
i don’t say a word 

i don’t want to break the spell 

i'm not old enough yet 
to wish the moment 
would last forever,
i just live in it

my dad and i aren’t as close as we used to be,
i grew up and things got
complicated, but 
i've never stopped looking for beauty
in the dark

it’s hard, 
to keep yourself from loving 
once you’ve learned how

sometimes, 
maybe especially when I am 
oceans away from that place 
that used to be home,
i close my eyes, and
i can still hear the shining sound
of a georgia summer night 

it's my dad's fault, really,
that I believe in magic

the flash of a smile
i hear before i see it 
says don’t worry so much 
about the dark

give yourself an excuse 
to go look for it,
and the whole world 
will wink back at you